


Anguish

by Smutstress



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Bondage and Discipline, Creative License, F/M, Impossible to win/predicament BDSM - Freeform, Predicament Bondage, Probably some emotional torture because I can't be controlled, Sadomasochism, Work In Progress, breath play, mild blood play, this is pure self indulgence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-15 16:13:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11234577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smutstress/pseuds/Smutstress
Summary: An alternative universe where some people are born dominant or submissive, essentially. Dominant's are sadistic, submissive's are masochistic.I suppose this is my loose interpretation of Kushiel's Dart by Jacqueline Carey, without the biblical spin.





	1. Chapter 1

Marie cried out as the sharp flechettes cut once again into the delicate skin of her stomach, shuddering at the exquisitely precise pain, feeling the searing heat of arousal flushing her pale skin.  
She writhed within the confines of her binds, swaying slightly on her tiptoes, body suspended by the wrists. Her fingers curled into the soft leather.  
Another gentle touch of the blade on the flesh of her breast sent her higher into bliss, until the pain blended with the pleasure and everything was merely sensation, setting her body on fire.  
She felt as if she were floating above it all, looking down on the interested crowd that witnessed her unravelling, drinking in her suffering with atavistic enjoyment.   
She cared nothing for their enjoyment, existing only in the moment to suffer at the hands of the skilled sadist who cut into her with such precise knowledge of his art, extracting every ounce of pain and pleasure with measured cruelty.  
She could feel the hot trickle of blood from countless tiny cuts mingling with the fine sheen of sweat on her skin, stinging deliciously as the razor sharp blades cut into her again, a little deeper, dragging perilously close to the sensitive flesh of her nipple.  
She threw her head back in a wordless scream, writhing violently as a powerful orgasm wracked her body, and hung limply, weight fully supported by the wide cuffs.   
Marie was dimly aware of a strong body against hers as fingers worked to undo the snap releases of the cuffs, heard the rumble and shuffle of the crowd as they dispersed.   
Shivering with reaction, she felt herself wrapped in a soft blanket but mumbled a protest as the fabric rubbed at the thin cuts, the renewed pain too much for her overloaded senses.  
A deep masculine voice spoke gently but firmly - she was too far gone to understand the words but nevertheless, she was soothed by them and she relaxed into the strong arms supporting her. 

 

Marie had no idea how long she drifted in the deep lassitude of subspace, but she was dimly aware that she’d been cocooned in the warm blanket and carried in sure arms through darkened halls.  
She came back to herself somewhat as she was laid carefully down and opened her eyes, recognising the familiar surroundings of her room. She gazed up at the ceiling, bemusedly listening to the sounds of running water and the distant bustle from the bathroom.  
She supposed it was one of the handlers the club employed to take care of their girls after an intense scene and for once she did not object. She suspected the delicate blades had done more damage than she was currently aware of, judging from the dull ache that was becoming harder and harder to ignore.  
The room was dimly lit, as she preferred, but why was the handler taking so long? They knew she hated fuss.  
“Do hurry up,” she called impatiently, rolling her eyes at the ceiling at the ineptitude of the handler.   
“Have a care with your tone, darling,” a familiar male voice replied mildly.  
Marie sat up in surprise, hissing as the sudden movement pulled at the delicate scabs of the half-closed cuts.   
“Oh,” she moaned, dizzy and lightheaded at the double assault to strained senses. She shrank back slightly as her dimly lit former tormentor moved swiftly towards her, setting a basin and cloth on the bedside table and settling on the edge of the bed.  
She, who suffered willingly at the hands of strangers in front of an avid audience, was suddenly shy. The club was very protective of its girls and all of the members were vetted and monitored almost constantly while they were on club grounds, but this man was in her room - none of the girls rooms were monitored, to afford them security and privacy, a sanctuary for them from their very public performances.   
And she remembered vividly how skillfully this man had toyed with her, taking his time to find her most sensitive areas and pushing her almost to the edge of her limits over and over again until she’d pleaded with him to stop.  
Although he had requested her on numerous occasions, both public and in the more private rooms for intimate scenes, she knew next to nothing about him, aside from how masterfully he could manipulate her into a sobbing mess, if he so chose. She didn’t even know his name.  
Marie felt vulnerable at this invasion of her innermost sanctum, already overwrought and heading into a bad subdrop as she started to process the intense emotions of the scene.  
The man handed her a glass of water and she obediently drained it, despite the shaking of her hands.  
She was grateful that he seemed to be ignoring her reactions as she couldn’t control the shivers that wracked her occasionally, or the unshed tears pricking her eyes, as he meticulously tended to each of the cuts with gentle, impersonal hands.  
He swabbed each one with an antiseptic ointment, and used a washcloth dipped in warm water to wash the streaks of dried blood from her skin, while she did her best to control the trembling with deep, unsteady breaths.  
If this had been a handler, she would have given in and cried, knowing it would be cathartic and would help to calm her down. But she was curiously reluctant to cry in front of him - although he had seen her cry many times during a scene.   
“These will take a few days to close properly,” he broke the long silence finally, setting aside the cloth.  
Marie nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She sat up and pulled the blanket more firmly around her shivering body. Unbidden, hot tears flowed silently down her cheeks.  
He studied her for a brief moment before he slid up the bed to rest against the headboard, gathering her, all unwilling, onto his lap.   
Unable to stop the sobs now shaking her slender frame, Marie buried her face in his shoulder and gave in finally, shyness giving way to relief as this relative stranger comforted her. And who else would know precisely what she needed, after he’d taken the time to learn exactly how to maximise her suffering?  
Marie had long ago come to terms with the synchronicity of her nature - the visceral need to suffer and the gentle caring afterwards, perfectly balanced out. She was fortunate, she’d grown up with perfect understanding of her uniqueness and had had plenty of time to come to terms with it. She almost pitied the new girls when they came in - shocked by the sudden appearance of the high submissive markings, usually a few years after puberty. Their training was meticulous and most of them settled in happily once they’d gone through their basic educations.   
But a few of them still struggled to accept that this was part of their nature, and not something they could easily deny or hide. It was unhealthy at best, and psychologically damaging at worst, for them to continue to deny their calling.  
Marie was one of the rare few born with the intricately etched markings on her back, branding her as a true submissive, a born masochist.   
And it took a true master to appreciate the finer nuances of her nature - to be able to draw her out and hold her there, right on the knife's edge, until she had given all she could give in terms of pain and pleasure.  
And this man who held her now, knew exactly how to comfort her because he knew exactly how she had suffered. With him, she could not hide, and it stripped away the careful facade of protection provided by the club and her exclusivity. It strayed dangerously close to emotional involvement.  
The blanket had slipped from her shoulder and the sadist traced the flowing lines of her markings, and it set her skin afire as if it were a brand.  
Calmer and more centred, Marie shifted from under his hand and pulled the blanket up to cover her mark. There was very little she could deny this enigmatic and skilled master but she hoped he would respect the subtle rebuke.  
He made no move to stop her, nor when she shifted away from him so she could face him across the length of the bed. Instead he folded his hands across his stomach, crossed his legs at the ankles and regarded her with one slightly quirked eyebrow, waiting for her to make the first move.  
Marie had a vivid flash from one of their earliest scenes - he’d been meticulously applying stripes with a single tailed whip evenly over her entire body, front and back. One of the blows had curled ever so slightly around her body and bit into the tender flesh of her stomach and she had cried out in fright, the unexpectedness of it startling.  
But before she had even cried out, he had lain down the whip and moved to inspect the mark, making sure the skin wasn’t broken. He’d soothed her by touching her cheek with his fingertips, and when she’d met his eyes, the resolve she found there anchored her.   
She flushed at the memory and dropped her eyes from his now, remembering how thoroughly he had whipped her and how high she’d soared. She shifted slightly beneath the blanket, remembering how long those marks had taken to fade.  
“Thank you,” she said simply, keeping her eyes demurely downcast as she’d been trained.  
“For which part? The part where I cut you, or the part where I made it better?”  
“Ah...both?” Marie ventured, flushed and stammering.  
A gentle curve of his lips would have been charming if she wasn’t acutely aware of the lingering ache. She resisted the urge to squeeze her thighs together to relieve the incessant itch.  
“How are you feeling?” He asked after a beat, studying her with dark eyes that seemed to see everything.  
“I’m fine. You need to go, you’re not supposed to be in here,” Marie blurted, a little more sharply than she’d intended.  
“Careful,” he warned, frowning. His pose of careful nonchalance faded enough for her to see that it was just a pose - he was indulging her after a difficult scene, but his patience was limited.  
“Sorry,” she mumbled, cowed. It was unnerving having him this close without any restraints or rules - out there, she knew how to act. She was lost, shrinking further down into the soft blanket.  
He heaved a sigh and shifted position to slide up the bed towards her, rolling his eyes when she drew back automatically.  
“Lie down,” he ordered casually. “Be silent,” he added when he saw the spark of anger in her eyes.   
Marie hesitated for a second, evaluating the situation. If he tried anything, one scream from her would alert the no-nonsense security team the House employed to keep the peace, and scare away the occasionally overly enthusiastic guests.   
Besides, his casual authority and over-handedness so far was comforting. She was honest enough to admit to herself that she was not fully out of the danger zone after the euphoric scene (at the hands of this man, her brain supplied helpfully) and she did not want to be alone, however much this invasion of her privacy irked her.  
Unable to suppress her displeasure, she gave a soft huff of impatience but obeyed, shuffling down to lie on her back, making sure to keep the blanket as a barrier between them.  
He stretched out beside her and manoeuvred her stiff, unwilling form into a more comfortable position on her side, tucked against him with her head on his shoulder. Despite his manhandling, he took care not to break any of the tender scabs on the paper-thin cuts marking her skin.  
He seemed at perfect ease, and after a few long minutes of tense stillness on her part, she finally allowed the tension to drain away. She was tired, and acting ridiculous. This man had explored her innermost secrets in the most intimate of ways, he was no threat.  
Marie sighed and stretched, wincing at the pull on the cuts, and threw one leg over his, cold toes worming under his calf, seeking warmth.  
“How are you feeling?” He asked again after she’d dozed peacefully for a long while, soothed by his seemingly idle fingers trailing up and down her side with seductive rhythm.  
“Fine,” she mumbled, boneless and utterly pliant against him as the endorphin's from the scene wore off now she was no longer fighting it. How different the drop was, she mused, when tended to by a maestro of suffering. The handlers were extensively trained, but impassive. They couldn’t fully understand the depths of raw emotion she’d experienced.  
But this man knew exactly what she craved to soothe frayed nerves, in spite, or perhaps because, of her churlishness.  
She made no protest when he gently rolled her onto her back and leaned over her, tugging the blanket away from her boneless grip. She watched his face through one slitted eye as he bent to study the cuts again.  
He was handsome, as most of her clients were. Heavy brows over dark brown eyes which pinned her with measured cruelty as he contemplated his next torment on her willing flesh. Almost too plump lips were too often pulled aside in a mocking smirk or pursed in displeasure, disguising the softness there now. His dark hair was longer than she’d thought, now that it was no longer slicked back with expensive oils. It hung down, obscuring his face from her curious eyes and without thinking, she reached out to smooth it back, surprised by how soft it was.  
He gave her a quick, amused glance at that before turning back to the marks on her body. He tested a few of them by pulling at the skin on either side gently, ignoring her squirming.  
“That hurts,” Marie whined, feeling the familiar pain-triggered flush light up her sensitive nerves, in spite of the exertion earlier. As tired as she was, even that small torment made her pulse pick up, beating a tattoo of sensation between her legs. She bit her lip, adrift.  
“That was the idea,” he purred in that all-too-familiar way, deceptively soft.  
Her breathing hitched at that, and she squirmed for an entirely different reason as he continued his methodical examination.  
Marie bit back another whine of protest as he rolled her onto her front deftly and tried to control her panting as desire and trepidation pulsed through her, stoked to a fever pitch by his clever fingers.  
A nail grazed the outline of the Mark on her left shoulder and she shuddered as the touch seared the highly sensitive skin there, unable to stop the whimpers as it continued down her back slowly, following the intricate swirls and loops.   
The sensations were overwhelming but her impeccable training kept her pliant even as her hips ground into the mattress, seeking friction. She existed only for this, the mind numbing heat like a brand being drawn across her willing flesh, nerves singing at the exquisite agony that fuelled the burning need between her splayed legs.  
More fingers on her inner thigh moved with frustrating slowness towards her sex and she whimpered pleadingly at the double assault, beyond reason, frantic with need.  
The nail on her back followed the last swirl of her Mark down across her buttocks just as a finger from below slid into her fluttering wetness and her body tightened on the penetrating digit. Her hips bucked and her thighs locked around his hand as her orgasm tore through her, body shuddering violently at the release.


	2. Chapter 2

Marie stood before Master Edwin, allowing him to study the cuts with resigned patience, knowing any outburst on her part would not be looked upon kindly. The Master was fair and just, but he would tolerate no disrespectful behaviour.  
It seemed to take an age, as he tsked and tutted over her, circling her dizzily, pausing only briefly at the crude brand so callously drawn from her blood. Dry, impersonal fingers traced the outline of it, soft enough to cause no pain. Marie grit her teeth, trying to bear the indignity with composure.  
He circled back around to face her and she shrank into the silken robe as if it could protect her.  
“Well, my dear, what are we to do?” He asked eventually, gazing down at her with saccharine affection.  
Marie bit back an irritated response.  
“Master, I’m sorry, I cannot allow myself to be marked with such blatant disrespect. I’m afraid I can’t allow any further appointments with this man,” she told him, keeping her voice quiet and respectful, as he preferred.  
The Master continued to gaze at her with patient amusement until she had to fist her hands at her side, fighting the urge to beat the look off his face.   
“The gentleman in question brings in a huge revenue for the club, Marie. While I do appreciate that you are upset, my dear, perhaps even a little overwrought? I’m afraid that is simply not an option.”  
“Please, Master Edwin, I can’t,” Marie pleaded, grabbing his hand. How could she make him see how deeply this marked her? The cuts would heal swiftly, but the unmitigated gall of the man to mark her so, as if he had every right to declare her his, that cut her to the core.  
She dashed moisture from her eyes, humiliated and furious.  
The Master held her hand gently in his dry clasp, looking sympathetic and understanding, but unmoved by her plea.  
“Come, my dear,” he sat her on a crushed velvet loveseat, a priceless antique, and tilted her chin up to dab at the corners with an embroidered handkerchief.  
As she tried to compose herself, pulling the robe closed to conceal her nudity, he moved to a mahogany cabinet, unstoppered a decanter of amber liquid and poured her a generous measure.  
He sat beside her and put a bracing arm around her shoulders, making her take a few steadying sips of the fragrant brandy, until her breathing calmed.  
“There, that’s better. We must protect you, sweetness.”  
“Thank you, Master,” Marie sighed, feeling better in his calming presence. She could admit to herself that her reactions earlier were out of line, and just maybe she wasn’t fully in command of her emotions.  
“Now, I daresay those cuts of yours will not take long to heal, knowing of your unusual gifts,” and he smiled down at her fondly. “A visit to Doctor Harlin would still be in order.”  
“I’ll go see him as soon as I leave here, Master,” she sniffled, leaning into him.  
“There’s my good girl. I know this is difficult for you, Marie. You know better than I how taxing this can be sometimes, but I trust that you will remember your training, and the rules of our House. Rules that are in place for your protection, as well as our convenience.”  
Startled, she drew back to look up at him, trying to fathom his meaning. The Master rarely said anything idly, and his tone made her take notice.  
Slowly, she nodded, frowning.  
“I will, of course, make sure your appointments are taken care of by someone else until you are restored to us.”  
“Laurie would be best for Thursday, Master,” she blurted, thinking quickly. The sadist who had requested her time that evening had a disturbing obsession with tears and was never satisfied until she was a sobbing mess. Laurie could handle that - not many of the girls were able to submit to that easily. The aftereffect could be devastating. It was easier to remain emotionally distant from the physical involvement, and it was something they were all taught early in their training.  
The Master nodded.   
“I’ll make sure she is available. Thank you, my dear. Now, run along to our esteemed doctor, and make sure you rest afterwards,” he admonished sternly, taking the glass of brandy from her.  
“I promise I will, Master. Thank you,” impulsively, she threw her arms around him and leaned up to plant a kiss on his cheek.  
That surprised a bark of laughter from him, but he allowed her the embrace, resting his chin on her head as he held her firmly.   
After a few moments, he rose, drawing her up with him, and escorted her out of his sumptuous office.


	3. Chapter 3

Marie obediently submitted to Doctor Harlin’s ministrations, answering his probing questions with candid honesty and agreeing to come back at the first sign of infection, or if she experienced any depression or anxiety.  
Truthfully, she didn’t have the heart to remind him that her unusual physiology meant she would never get an infection. He was used to dealing with the other girls, and her case was unique.   
A born submissive, she was gifted with the ability to heal quickly and without complications. A genetic blessing, enabling her to fulfil the potential of her birthright - the perfect plaything for the true Sadist.  
She was grateful for his concern, though. It buoyed her bruised spirit in a way that her conversation with Master Edwin could not.   
The doctor cared nothing for the clubs profits - he was here to tend to the girls, and he put their well-being above all else. He was acutely aware of the warning signs of a bad drop, and made sure the girls all knew they could come to him whenever they needed.  
Having someone exclusively on her side made Marie feel a little better, and she promised him faithfully that she would come to him immediately if she needed him.   
She made her way back to her room through the winding corridors of the residential area of the House, mercifully empty at this time of day. As much as she liked the rest of the girls, at the moment she was feeling too raw to speak to anyone else, and was grateful to make it back to the sanctuary of her room without encountering anyone.  
She was ravenous. Since she’d slept late, she’d missed breakfast in the club. Luckily, the kitchen staff were on call 24/7.   
Marie made her way to the cluttered table beside her bed, intending to order something to eat and then run a bath while it was delivered. As she went to pick up the phone, something caught her eye.  
A business card, white with two lines of uncomplicated black text. She hesitated with a sinking feeling of dread, hand hovering indecisively between it and the cell phone she’d been reaching for.  
Steeling herself, she snatched up the card.

David Bellamy  
754-201-3663

 

With deliberate precision, she carefully laid the card back down on the messy pile of books and picked up the phone, dialing the code for the kitchen.  
She ordered eggs benedict and a carafe of freshly squeezed orange juice in a calm, measured voice and went to start the tub filling with lavender and chamomile laced water, setting it to her preferred temperature.  
She deftly twisted her hair back from her face, securing it at the nape of her neck with a practised knot, before she allowed herself to return to her bed.  
She curled up against the headboard, angled to face the innocuous business card, wondering that something so innocent could cause so much turmoil. Fear or anticipation tightened something deep in her core and she squirmed at the intrusion.  
It was not a question, Marie argued with herself, of whether she called or not. It was merely a question of when - and why. Why leave the card? What did he hope to accomplish? The House owned her contract, she could not leave freely. In essence, they owned her, and her service, until she was able to buy it from them, if she so wished, and she did not. Her fee was substantial, even with the cut the club took for her care. Like most of the girls, she invested her money back into the club that gave them purpose, and sanctuary.  
A brief knock at the door interrupted her reverie and she started as the door was opened.  
“Here we are, love,” Agnes called cheerily, bustling into the room with her usual disregard.  
Marie opened her mouth to speak, then swallowed against the sudden dryness.  
“Thank you,” she managed huskily, giving Agnes a quick smile.  
The maid smiled back and set the tray carefully on the low table in front of the damask chaise lounge by the window. She swept out of the room as quickly as she entered, leaving the girl alone once more with her treacherous thoughts.  
Marie ate quickly, mechanically, lost in speculation. Part of her desperately wanted to call the number given, but until she knew how she felt about it, she knew it would be foolish. He unsettled her, and she was afraid of where it might lead.   
Resolutely, she rose and snatched up a book, flipping it open at random and placing the card inside. Careful not to look at the title or cover, she slipped it onto a shelf and turned away. 

 

** **

 

It took eight days for her cuts to heal, and Marie grew more and more impatient as the days dragged on. The growing flame of need was easy to ignore at first, as she moped around and filled her days with swimming, visits to the beauticians on staff who plucked and buffed and pampered her into a pliant mess, and helping the other girls get ready for the evening.  
But soon, the yearning grew to an incessant itch that she could not ignore. She resented the girls’ giggling gossip, their blushing whispers as they excitedly looked forward to whichever client had requested them that night.   
Marie helped to arrange their hair and makeup with as much grace as she could manage.   
When Dr. Harlin finally pronounced her hale and whole, she could have sobbed with gratitude. She left him in a giddy rush, to inform the majordomo that she could be listed as available again.  
She spent the day in a frenzy of anticipation, and took the other girls’ teasing in good spirits, knowing how snappish she had been for the past few days.   
And, finally, she slipped the backless white tunic over her head and settled it with practised hands, cinching the waist in just so with the cleverly hidden hooks. One last quick look to make sure her Mark was prominently displayed, and she was enveloped in the heady, charged atmosphere of the Club.  
The plush carpet was soft under her bare feet and the dim glow from hundreds of hidden lights made the partially enclosed booths around the edges of the room appear dark and mysterious.   
The large room was already occupied - people mingled, chatting in small groups. Mostly men, but there were some women and couples too. Amidst this, the unobtrusive security staff made sure everyone kept a clear head.  
Feeling more settled than she had in days, Marie took up a position to one side of the bar, where she could scan the room unobtrusively. The bartender, Ted, slid a sparkling water and lime towards her with a wink and leaned on the bar.  
“Welcome back, honey.”  
“Thanks, Teddy,” Marie smiled, hiding a shiver of anticipation.  
“How’s it looking?”   
Marie gave the room another quick scan, and sipped at the sparkling water coyly.  
Ted rolled his eyes and patted her arm, moving off to serve someone else.


	4. Chapter 4

It seemed like only seconds had passed when she felt an achingly familiar finger caress the swirl of her Mark on her right shoulder again. The simple touch conjured up vivid flashes of remembered pleasure, and she felt the time between the last touch and this one fading away to insignificance.  
She turned to stare up into dark, brooding eyes and clutched the bar for support, breathless. Suddenly she wasn’t aware of the throngs of people milling around, didn’t hear the muted thrum of the music - her whole world pivoted in that unwavering regard that seemed to lock her in place, seeing through the carefully cultured reserve, and the subtle art of her training to the raw and potent need deep within, that could never be truly sated.  
She shivered at the threat in his gaze, the long days of frustration and uncertainty replaced with impatient anticipation.  
“You didn’t call.” He sounded mildly disappointed.  
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, automatically dropping her eyes, before they darted back up to his.  
“Are you free?”   
Not trusting her voice in her current state, she nodded.   
He leaned into her until his lips brushed the hair by her ear.  
“One minute,” he breathed, his voice full of dark promise that sent a frisson of fear through her body.  
She watched, bemused, as he strode off confidently to one of the doors lining the dark edges of the room. As she stared after him, she saw him raise his arm and glance at his watch.  
The seemingly casual gesture jolted her out of her stupor and she hastened to find the major domo to inform him she would be unavailable for the evening and in which room, stuttering and stumbling over her words in her trembling eagerness.  
Reminding herself firmly that it was unbecoming to dash around like a novice, she schooled herself to walk with her usual grace, using the precious few seconds she had left to try and regain some composure.  
The fragile control slipped as she hesitated outside the heavy teak door and she stumbled through the arch, catching herself on the door handle.  
A strong grip on her arm steadied her even as it guided her further into the room, the door clicking closed behind her.  
“Strip, be silent,” he ordered, releasing his grip to move to the armoire behind her.  
The command settled her nerves and her fingers moved swiftly to unhook the simple shift she wore and let it puddle at her feet, stepping out of it.   
Gentle fingers gathered her hair up and moved it over her shoulder, out of the way. One wrist and then the other was pulled back and bound with rope, and each tightening coil made her pulse with desire.  
The rope worked up her arms until her elbows were bound together, pushing her breasts out and up. She let out a little gasp when her head was pulled roughly back by a fistful of hair, and bound tightly to her arms, forcing her head up and her back to arch even more to relieve the pressure.   
He prowled around her slowly, pausing, checking the ropes, until her eyes were straining to see what he was doing. Frustrated, she bit her lip against a heated protest.  
Fingers slid around her neck, grip tightening deliciously as he pulled her off-balance, so she was leaning backwards, weight supported by his torso.  
Distracted by her predicament, Marie jerked in surprise at the sudden snap of rope against the tender flesh of her stomach, but her mewl of protest was cut off as his hand suddenly tightened on her throat, pulling her up tight against him until her toes were scraping against the floor, unable to find purchase.  
He let up just a touch as the wild panic made her kick and thrash to break free, incapacitated hands scrabbling for some purchase to push him away. With her head held back, and her arms bound, she was completely at his mercy, and frightened tears streaked uselessly from her eyes.  
She sobbed for air against the narrow passage he allowed her, limp and helpless in his grasp. Lightheadedness at the lack of oxygen and the rush of adrenaline made her acutely aware of the slick of arousal coating her thighs as she pressed them together, seeking relief.  
Without releasing the hold on her airway, his other hand snaked around to find a nipple, teasing it out and rolling it between his fingers. Her hips bucked in time to his ministrations and she let out a choked moan.  
He clamped down on her throat again, continuing the relentless assault on her breasts. Terror and desire combined and Marie was falling hard, surrendered utterly to her fate.  
Spots of light danced in her vision and her lungs burned in protest even as the arousal reached it’s peak. The vice on her neck released and that first gasp for air turned into a shriek as the orgasm ripped through her, shattering in its intensity.  
The knot at the nape of her neck released and she was eased gently onto her knees before she slumped to her side, still panting. She grumbled a rude protest and tried to bat at the hand that gripped her chin, turning her this way and that to check for bruising.  
“For a courtesan, you’re not very courteous,” he growled to himself, as he pulled her resistant form closer, to undo the knots.  
“For a gentleman, you’re not very gentle,” she retorted hoarsely, still coming down from the high.  
“I’m not here for gentle, darling, and neither are you,” he snapped, irritated, tugging at the ropes with little regard for her soft skin.  
“That was inappropriate of me,” Marie tried to sound contrite though her voice was rough, turning her face into the thick carpet, willing her body relax into the rough treatment. She had no self control around him - she kept saying exactly the wrong thing.  
He looped the rope into a loose coil and threw it aside, staring down at her for a long moment, mouth thinned in annoyance, before he shook his head slightly.  
“Propriety is not one of my requirements, luckily for your skin,” he said dryly, reaching out to tweak her hair sharply.  
Marie twisted away from him and sat up too quickly, pale as her vision dim and blood thundered in her ears.  
“By the gods, girl, have you no sense of self-preservation?” He steadied her as she swayed forwards, eyes unfocused.  
She groaned as the room spun, nauseous and shivering in a cold sweat at the sudden assault on her senses.   
Warm hands cupped her face and she sighed contentedly, temporarily grounded. When her vision clear, he was scowling at her with indecipherable emotion.  
“Move slowly,” he bit out each word precisely, as if she were simple and needed basic instruction.  
Piqued, she jerked free but rose with caution, stumbling a little. Her shoulders were a little stiff as she rolled them experimentally, trying to ignore the dark eyes that studied her movements with detached interest. She probed at her throat gently, wincing slightly at the lingering soreness and nervously raked her fingers through her hair.  
The way his eyes followed her made her skin prickle uncomfortably and even standing over him, she felt powerless. She found herself anxiously twisting her hands together and shifting her feet and took a steadying breath, schooling herself to a practised pose of abeyance - feet level with her hips, back straight and shoulders relaxed, hands resting palm down on her thighs, eyes forward.  
The position helped her to find a calm centre, which made it easier to ignore his next cruel comment  
“Did they teach you to be a sycophant?”  
“I was taught ad libitum, in all things,” Marie replied calmly, unmoved.  
He rose after a pause and circled her slowly, before coming to rest in her sight line.   
“Alterius non sit qui suus esse potest,” he quoted darkly.   
“An nescis, mi fili, quantilla prudentia mundus regatur?” She whispered, with an amused twitch of her lips.  
He folded his arms and grunted at that.  
“What else did they teach you?”  
Without hesitation, Marie flowed into a classic kneeling position - legs together, toes pointed, back arched slightly as her arms folded naturally against her lower back. Her chin dipped slightly, so she could give him her best coquettish glance up through her lashes, lips parted slightly.  
“Does it have a name?”  
“Soumettre,” she breathed, voice husky.  
“Another.”.  
Marie spread her knees and extended her arms backwards, until her weight was supported on the tips of her spread fingers. Her nipples hardened as she arched her back proudly, and she felt the slickness on her inner thigh in the cool air.  
“Cadeau,” she said without prompting, seeing his eyes darken with desire. Her pulse quickened in response.  
“Another,” he growled.  
Seized with lust-fuelled inspiration, she knelt up and stretched forwards, back arched so her breasts and forehead supported her weight, arms extended out front, hips held high in the air with her thighs obscenely spread.  
“Rabaisser,” she whispered.  
She heard him move away and rummage in the well-stocked armoire for a few moments before he returned. The sound of something soft hitting the floor made her risk a peek through her hair, and she saw his white shirt, lying discarded a few feet away.  
She swallowed convulsively, imaging what lay beneath, but dared not look.  
More noise behind her, and his shoes, socks and watch added to the pile.  
“Do not move. You may scream,” he added after a beat.  
Marie managed a noise of agreement which turned into a gasp as something wickedly sharp grazed the sole of her foot. Instinctively, she pulled away from the stimulation before she remembered his command, but it was too late.  
The swish of displaced air was followed by the hard slap of something heavy on her backside and she cried out at the unexpectedness of it, feeling the searing pain radiating out from the point of impact.  
“Ah,” she purred in satisfaction as the pain blended with arousal and set her blood on fire through her veins. She adjusted her position back to how it was before, making sure both knees were perfectly even and her toes were pointed just so. This is a game I can play.  
The knife point resumed drawing it’s pattern on the tender flesh of her foot, unerringly finding the areas that were particularly ticklish, before moving up her calf with agonising slowness.   
He hit a spot in her knee that sent a maddening tingle up her thigh and she whimpered in trepidation even as her body betrayed her yet again. This time the tip of the tawse struck her on her inner thigh, perilously close to the tender flesh of her labia and her hips curled downwards. It left an echoing mark on her other thigh in quick succession and Marie screamed at the double assault. The third blow left a welt just below the first strike, rekindling the pain.   
It was impossible to regroup with the relentless blows raining down on her, raising painful welts, and she hadn’t a hope of recovering her poise. The pain blossomed outwards until it blended into one searing note that thrummed between her legs until she was bucking helplessly between the two extremes, a sobbing mess.  
One final blow landed ferociously on her sex and Marie shrieked at the most intimate of pains, rearing backwards as it toppled her over the edge into shattering bliss.  
Strong arms wrapped around her and held her until the trembling eased and the violent sobs tapered off into sniffles while she hovered on the verge of consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Language nerd alert - 
> 
> Ad libitum - Latin - According to what pleases/towards pleasure  
> Alterius non sit qui suus esse potest - Aesop quote, Latin - Let no man be another's who can be his own  
> An nescis, mi fili, quantilla prudentia mundus regatur? - Latin, another quote - Do you not know, my son, with how little wisdom the world is governed
> 
> Positions - French  
> Soumettre - Kneeling - Submit  
> Cadaeu - Exposed - Gift  
> Rabaisser - My personal favourite - Abase/belittle


End file.
